“GO SEE CAL”

“First, everyone in Lake Havasu City knows the last name, Sheehy, or they should.”

Whenever I see the name “Cal,” I mainly think of four things. Calvin “Cal” Freeman is my brother-in-law. He lives in Kansas, and we visit him as often as we can. He’s a gearhead like me and has been a big help over the years in car and truck projects. Cal is close to retirement, so he should have plenty of time to finish his own rides.

Cal Sheehy is the mayor of Lake Havasu City, Arizona, and I’ve met him on several occasions. If Cal were to remember me for anything, it would be that I always remind him to have the police enforce our covered-load law. I’m not even sure we have such a law, but I remind him just the same.

Cal Worthington owned car dealerships in Southern California and Alaska. I never met him personally, yet I bumped into him a couple of times in restaurants. I always remember Cal Worthington as tall, wearing a white cowboy hat, with an attractive younger woman at his side. The late businessman’s advertising jingle, “Go see Cal,” is permanently etched into my brain.

Cal is also the nickname for California. I have a brother who lives there along with a sister-in-law and her husband. Cal (California) carries a negative stigma, largely due to corrupt government officials. I won’t go there because it’d take three newspaper pages to totally describe my feelings.

There are several other people in history named Cal, and I’ll touch lightly upon them. Calvin “Cal” Coolidge was the 30th president of the United States. Cal Ripken Jr. was a famous baseball player with the Baltimore Orioles. Cal Hubbard was an NFL linebacker. These three I’ve never met. It would’ve been impossible to meet Cal Coolidge because he’s been pushing up daisies long before I was born.

What brings me to the name “Cal” is someone I stumbled upon from the past: Marie Sheehy. When I saw her name on a 1913 postcard mailed from Maricopa, Arizona, to Arkansas City, Kansas, it piqued my interest. First, everyone in Lake Havasu City knows the last name, Sheehy, or they should.

Arkansas City, Kansas, is a place I’ve been through, and I find the town name unusual. Marie Sheehy lived there for a short spell, although most of her years were spent in Lincoln, Nebraska. Is Marie Sheehy related to our Mayor Cal Sheehy? Only he can answer that for sure.

On the back of that 1913 picture postcard is a message from Marie’s friend, Vera King. It reads:

“Dearie – Monday – Am leaving Phoenix in the A.M. and expect to be in Los Angeles Wednesday A.M. Will drop you a card as soon as I get there. Don’t you wish you were with me? In another month or so I shall be on my way home I think. Lovingly, Vera.”

The picture on the front of the postcard shows an early-1900s touring car rolling past a giant saguaro cactus on the Apache Trail near the Superstition Mountains. It stands to reason that Vera could’ve been traveling by automobile from Phoenix to LA.

Marie was born on September 2, 1896. She had two brothers, Edward and Harold. The four sisters were Cecil, Nellie, Minnie, and Pearl. The children’s parents were Edward and Rectta, who were farmers. Photos of Marie show her to be an extremely attractive young lady.

Raised in Catholic schools, Marie traveled extensively after graduation, according to brief newspaper accounts of her excursions. She had relatives in Arkansas City, so that’s why she visited there and eventually stayed for a short spell.

Most interesting to me was why Marie Sheehy never married. That question was answered when I found that she had joined the convent of the Order of Servants of the Holy Ghost in Techny, Illinois. In other words, Marie became a nun.

Marie died at the age of 83 on July 12, 1980. She’s buried in Lincoln, Nebraska, alongside her sister, Minnie. If Mayor Cal Sheehy is related to Marie, I have that old picture postcard. It’s his for the asking.

T-SHIRT TRAVELS

“Several of my most interesting pieces of apparel come from, of all places, the local second-hand thrift stores.”

One thing I love about Lake Havasu City is that shorts and T-shirts are the attire of the day. I rarely wear anything else. You can’t differentiate between billionaires and the average Joe by the clothes they wear in this town.

For me, wearing shorts and tees hasn’t always been the case. In Alaska, there were summer days worthy of such, but these were short-lived. I sported them while cycling, but even then, long pants came in handy on rainy and windy days, which were often. Hypothermia was something I learned about in school, and I wisely avoided it.

My favorite tees are those designer ones purchased all over the globe. Lightning Bolt surfboard T-shirts were my favorite when I was young, and I still have the first one from Hawaii. It’s now in a shadowbox frame hanging in my garage as a memento of sorts. My daughter used it as nightwear, and I have a photo of her modeling things when Miranda was around four years old.

I’ve got a tee from the first ‘Street Machine Nationals’ in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This was in 1976, and it was the largest gathering of car enthusiasts, with well over 1,000 cars. That vehicle record was recently broken when over 3500 vehicles convened in Tulsa for a cruise.

Joleen and I still have sunburn scars from that Tulsa show 50 years ago because we didn’t wear enough sun protection. A year later, in 1977, in St. Paul, Minnesota, I picked up a shirt at the ‘Street Rod Nationals’. That one has moth holes in it yet is still packed away somewhere.

My wife and I have attended ‘The Run to the Sun’ here in town for more than three decades, and we still have plenty of shirts from those events. I wear the older ones on occasion, and I’m surprised at how many senior residents do the same.

These days, I’m always looking for unique newer shirts, with my latest purchase being a nice one featuring the Havasu Cars N’ Coffee logo, which takes place at Rotary Park on the first and third Sunday mornings here in Havasu from sunrise to 9.

Another recent purchase features Albert Einstein working on a small-block Chevrolet with a wrench in his hand. I’m not sure when that picture of him was taken. Several of my most interesting pieces of apparel come from, of all places, the local second-hand thrift stores. I’ve discovered shirts from events I would’ve liked to attend but couldn’t.

Harley-Davidson tees were my favorite for a while, but at close to $40 a pop, that fetish soon ended. One shirt that I have my sights on proclaims, “I welded and it helded.” Only mechanic types will get the humor here.

My Havasu ensemble now consists of around six pairs of shorts and approximately 200 T-shirts. Some ‘Run to the Sun’ golf shirts are also included with the collection.’ I don’t play golf in these, but I do wear them to special events and out to dinner.

During Alaska winters, I remember calling Randy Randall in Havasu several times, with him telling me how warm it was, and that he was wearing shorts and a short-sleeve shirt. He did this to ‘rub it in’ more than anything. These days, I can do the same, but so far have refrained.

The summer months have a majority of the specialty shirts with California locations, while the winter months have a plethora of shirts from different states. I like to read them whenever possible, yet then again, don’t want to be caught staring at folks, especially if it’s someone’s wife or girlfriend.

Perhaps the funniest shirt I’ve ever come across was worn by a woman with weight issues. She still had a sense of humor with her shirt reading, “I beat anorexia.” I wanted to laugh, but held back, not knowing whether to or not.

My favorite shirt, with a humorous motif, came from J.C. Penney here in town. I’ve gotten more comments on it than on any other. “I’m not trying to be difficult – It comes naturally.”

That saying seems to get truer for me with each passing year. Friends, family, and my wife will agree on that.

EATING GOOD in THE NEIGHBORHOOD

“BE EVER THANKFUL”

Family of four sitting at a table eating McDonald's food indoors

My parents weren’t wealthy when we were growing up. Dad was in the Air Force while Mom worked in hospitals. Living in Lubbock, Texas, a treat for us after payday was when my father drove us to Whataburger in his black ’57 Ford. Because the hamburgers were so big, my brother and I split one.

In Selma, Alabama, the Jet Drive-In supplied us with fast food as it was only a few miles down the road. Their burgers were 18 cents each, or 5 for 75 cents. I only know this because I still have an ad from 1956. I’m sure that Dad splurged and ordered ten.

Eating out was a treat for us, and I’ve never forgotten it. I believe some younger folks now take this activity for granted. Money was tight even for my wife and me after we got married, so trips out for dining were limited.

These days, I often see an older husband or wife wheel their spouse into a restaurant as they’re no longer mobile. I suppose this is a joy for them in just being able to get out of the house.

There must be hundreds here in town, perhaps thousands, that can no longer venture outside. It’s doubtful you’ll ever find these people complaining about food or service.

To finish this composition, I penned another one of those rhyming poems or songs that I like to compose. It’s kind of a brain twister for me, and it keeps the gears turning upstairs. I spend more time on these than I do on a 1000-word article.

BE EVER THANKFUL

My wife and I eat out more than we should.

She prefers sit-down while I like drive-thru.

Del Taco is swell, including La Vita Dolce.

Choosing is hard, with me often losing.

*****

In-N-Out makes the best cheeseburgers.

Their ‘Animal Fries’ are something to savor.

Culver’s is known for 42 custard flavors.

Reese’s peanut cup is the one that I favor.

*****

McDonald’s has a slick breakfast menu.

Sausage egg McMuffin, hot from the oven.

Shared with Joleen, along with iced coffee.

Under ten bucks is something we’re lovin’.

*****

Shugrue’s is the place for special occasions.

We go there mostly for birthday celebrations.

Black Bear makes a creamy chicken pot pie.

Their apple à la mode is worthy of a try.

*****

Juicy’s is known for succulent pot roast.

The leftovers are definitely worth saving.

Rusty’s on North Kiowa has me craving,

For more of their fresh biscuits and gravy.

*****

There are numerous eateries in our town.

After dining at most, we’ve hardly been let down.

For those who disagree, try your best not to frown.

Instead of griping, be ever thankful you can still get around!

Elderly man pushing a woman in a wheelchair outside Chili's restaurant
An elderly man pushes a smiling woman in a wheelchair outside Chili’s Grill & Bar.

PALO VERDE PALACE

“If for some reason this ironically hits a bit too close to home, hey, I didn’t give out the complete address.”

Come summer months when the temperature’s above 100, my wife and I get commonly asked, “Are you guys okay. I haven’t seen you outside in ages?”

Like many seniors, we spend a good deal of time indoors, but that doesn’t mean we’re ill or hurting. I’m generally in my garage working on projects while Joleen sews and reads.

I’ve heard other older people in town say the same. Some of my friends won’t stop by unless the garage door is up, and that hardly ever happens during peak temperatures. It’s now air-conditioned, so letting all of the cool air escape would be wasteful.

Some older folks in Havasu make extra money by peddling things on Marketplace or eBay, while others are crafty. I’ve observed stained-glass artwork and carved-wood figurines for sale at various locations, made by seniors. I suppose these items are manufactured in their homes and garages during the scorching heat of June through September.

Others still work because they need the bucks, or just want to stay busy, and we come across these individuals all around town working in various places. I now forget where I ran into a restaurant employee who said she was in her 80s. The woman was quite spry despite her years.

I penned another one of those hypothetical poems or songs slanted towards a fictitious couple, the Spooners, living on Palo Verde. These imaginary residents are crafty as well, but in a different fashion. They rarely leave their house all year long, except in December, when they jet to Hawaii for a month.

If, for some reason, this tall tale ironically hits a bit too close to home, hey, I didn’t give out the complete address if one does exist. In a larger town, back when taxis were the main source of transportation for visitors, all you needed to do to find houses of ill repute was ask a cab driver. I’m not sure UBER offers the same.

“BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

The old couple living on the corner.

Both are hardly seen outside of their home.

Neighbors assume that they’re just loners.

Choosing to live by themselves all alone.

*****

Boyd and Sue come across as fragile.

Often use walkers or ornate wood canes.

This is all for a definite reason.

To make folks think that they’re lame.

*****

The Palo Verde Palace holds a big secret.

One that the neighborhood does not see.

It’s an after-hours gambling joint.

Complete with slots and video poker screens.

*****

All guests arrive through the back door.

Vehicles are parked on adjoining streets.

Because they come late in the evening.

Most of the residents are fast asleep.

*****

Boyd and Sue Spooner make thousands.

So much that they launder it out.

Ambulances will pull into their driveway.

Hauling away Franklins, Jacksons, and Grants.

*****

The Spooners shut down each December.

An unmarked hearse always stops by.

Word quickly spreads through the grapevine,

That one of the octogenarians has died.

*****

This has been going on for ten years now.

Neighbors have yet to fully see the light.

Both entrepreneurs are thinking of retiring.

Yet it’s hard for them to give up this life.

*****

Should LHPD ever catch on to things.

Or the IRS attempts to get in their way.

Boyd has rehearsed exactly what to say here.

It’s merely part of our 401-K.”

Elderly man and woman counting and bundling stacks of US hundred-dollar bills at a wooden table

BMW

“Instead of Bavarian Motor Works, Jim’s nickname is By-itch, Moan, and Whine.”

Four older mechanics repairing a classic red Alfa Romeo car engine in a vintage Italian garage

I once tuned in to a popular NPR radio show called “Car Talk,” hosted by brothers Tom and Ray Magliozzi. The siblings went by the pseudonyms Click and Clack Tappet on the air. This production originally aired from 1977 to 2012 and featured an engaging mix of car advice, humor, and listener calls.

The Magliozzi brothers, known for their comedic banter and relatable stories, would tackle a range of automotive questions while entertaining listeners with their quick wit and chemistry. Both cast themselves as simple garage mechanics, although each graduated from MIT with an engineering degree.

The show became a beloved staple of public radio, appealing to car enthusiasts and casual listeners alike. Their catchphrases and playful interactions contributed to the show’s charm, making it a memorable part of many people’s weekends.

I first came across this talk show while traveling in Arizona and became addicted to it. Being a mechanic myself, I didn’t always agree with their advice, but they were ‘spot on’ most of the time. To me, the funniest part was the interaction between callers and the Tappet brothers.

It was easy to hear that some of those callers were dangerous, especially when they had wrenches in their hands. What I mean here is that select people should outsource work to professionals rather than attempt it themselves.

I once tried to do some plumbing without really knowing the basics. This was before YouTube made it somewhat easy. Black pipe was used during a new hot water heater install, and before long, electrolysis between the steel and copper created a major leak and ruined the tank. I only found this out after a veteran plumber laughed at what he saw.

On “Car Talk,” some listeners constantly asked the brothers technical questions that only someone with a computer analyzer could answer. I knew right then these callers shouldn’t be working on their own vehicles to begin with. I kept waiting for one of the Tappets to jokingly instruct a caller to place their phone near the problem car or truck.

Over the years, I’ve watched friends, family, and strangers attempt automotive work and finally give up. The reason for this to begin with was that they didn’t want to pay someone. This was true not only for car repairs but also for roofing, plumbing, electrical work, and other tasks.

In a garage where I was employed, a customer would occasionally bring in what we called a “basket case.” This was a multitude of uninstalled parts, generally in a box or boxes, that this person rounded up after admitting defeat. These jobs cost that individual much more than if they had simply left things alone.

Most guys who refuse to use automotive professionals complain that the cost is much higher than they think the job is worth. Of course, when they purchase a designer cup of coffee for $8, they never say a thing, even leaving a whole $10 bill to cover the tip.

“Car Talk” is no longer in production. When Tom Magliozzi passed away on November 3, 2014, at the age of 76, from side effects of Alzheimer’s, the show ceased to exist. I mourn the loss because it was one of the best public radio programs to ever air.

The other day, a friend who owned a successful import-car garage told me that BMW owners complained about their bills more than customers of other brands did.  German automobile parts are more expensive than American or Japanese equivalents.

Former garage owner Jim Brownfield has a humorous name for BMW. Instead of Bavarian Motor Works, Jim’s nickname is By-itch, Moan, and Whine. I changed the spelling of the first word here to avoid being overly derogatory, while the pronunciation is the same as the original.

With “Car Talk” now gone, I’d like to see a new radio or television program where callers with a negative bent complain about the supposed high prices of auto shops, plumbers, electricians, roofers, gasoline, groceries, and anything else in between. Hey, we can even add hair stylists to that list. I’ve heard many women gripe about the beauty shops they go to.

I’d name this show, “BMW.” The program would have two female panelists, preferably sisters, with folks either calling in or appearing in person to cry, moan, and whine, especially about our government and politicians.

When I told my wife about this idea, she replied right away, “There already is such.” Not knowing what she was talking about, I point-blank had to ask. “The View!” Joleen then informed me, “Those five women are the Debbie Downers of the television world!”

I’ve only watched a small segment of “The View” and found it totally irritating. If it were made into a radio program like “Car Talk,” I’m not sure I could still drive and handle the smack without first popping a couple of Prozac.

The Magliozzi brothers were positive and uplifting to listen to. My idea for a replacement radio program, based on people’s complaints, no longer sounds so enlightening.

In fact, the thought of two estrogen and hormone-impaired individuals sitting behind microphones, handing out negative complaints and advice to other disgruntled people, is unbelievably frightening.

Two women wearing headphones speaking into microphones in a radio studio labeled Studio 3

DUKE AND ME

“Diana stayed home for a pedicure and nails.”

Man driving a muddy SUV with a dog sticking head out of rear window

A hundred bucks later, my tank’s full of gas.

Slapped on a credit card cause I ain’t got no cash.

Livin’ on convenience store grub and diet pop.

My colon’s ’bout to burst with the restroom locked.

*****

Out on the road with nothin’ but a wing and a prayer.

The Goodyears are bald, yet they still hold air.

Girlfriend was insistent that “Duke” and I hit the trail.

Diana stayed home for a pedicure and nails.

*****

My Boxer’s good company and is man’s best friend.

The poor mutt, however, ate rank chili and Spam.

Tootin’ and poopin’ in my Subaru back seat.

We drove with windows down ‘til rain turned to sleet.

*****

Thankfully, Comfort Inn allowed pets to stay.

Pity whoever cleaned carpet the very next day.

I didn’t even take time to grab a hot shower.

Smell was so toxic, it would’ve wilted flowers.

*****

Our final destination was New Mexico.

Chose a camping spot just outside Texico.

For two days and nights, we roughed it together.

Lived in a pup tent under inclement weather.

*****

On the drive home, two tires suddenly let go.

Took out both fenders, sailed off the road.

Ended up in a pasture with thirteen grazing cows.

Right next to a farmer’s old antique plow.

*****

Having no jack or spare, we sat and waited.

The wrecker never showed as I anticipated.

At some point, it came time to hitch a ride.

A man happened along; he was sky-high.

*****

Dog and I rode in the back of his old truck.

Bed filled with beer cans and cemetery stuff.

The fellow was a gravedigger with poor hearing.

Told me that dead stiffs were job-securing.

*****

After we’d left, my car burned to a crisp.

Subaru’s wiring shorted from hitting that fence.

“Duke” and I then thumbed it on to Santa Fe.

Spent the night at Motel 6 until ten past eight.

*****

It was now ripe time to make a big decision.

Took my VISA card, headed to Capitol Lincoln.

Charged the down payment, bought a black Aviator.

Celebrated at Wendy’s with two Baconators.

*****

When Diana finds out, she’ll probably flip.

Will regret having us take that camping trip.

No more frugalness for ole “Duke” and me.

From here on out, we’ll both travel in luxury!

Man smiling with a boxer dog in the driver's seat of a black SUV parked outside Hôtel Hermitage Monte-Carlo

THE LAST REUNION

“A friend told me that Todd Fink is bringing his mother.”

Group of elderly people talking beneath a Class of 1972 Reunion banner

* I wrote this for a friend. It’s based on a dream he had and is purely hypothetical.

THE LAST REUNION

“The reunion is close, and I have plenty to fear.

My wrinkled head looks like a baby’s derriere.

Hair started falling out not long after graduation.

A plugged-up shower gave me that first indication.

*****

Jack, Leroy, and Ed all lost their curly locks.

They’ll be attending, claiming baldness still rocks.

It might be for hunks like Dwayne Johnson and Vin Diesel.

But for old farts on Beano, we resemble alien creatures.

*****

If asked by a classmate what I did for a career,

I’ll have to act dumb and pretend I didn’t hear.

Smart kids became doctors and have big homes.

I live in a Winnebago, over thirty feet long.

*****

Former girlfriend will attend with significant other.

A friend told me Todd Fink is bringing his mother.

I plan to ask the neighbor if she’ll be my date.

Brandy’s just nineteen yet mature for her age.

*****

Some Karens will whisper the girl’s a gold digger.

Come to think of it, that’ll make me a winner.

I was never voted ‘most likely to succeed.’

Yet, folks will be talking long after we leave!”

WHAT’S YOUR HURRY?

“Bearded coot in front of me is ridin’ his brakes.”

White compact car and red pickup truck driving on multi-lane highway near University of Arizona exit

I find Monday mornings are the ones to avoid while driving Highway 95 in our city. People seem to be in a bigger hurry that morning than any other. Construction trucks with their trailers are speeding in both directions with commercial vans up the yin-yang.

Trash is flying out of uncovered loads bound for the dump, while young female drivers apply mascara at red lights. I’ve seen just about everything on Monday mornings, along with what appears to be more traffic accidents than on any other day. I’d like to see the LHPD statistics for that.

Unfortunately, I had to take my wife to the phlebotomist this past Monday and couldn’t avoid the hustle and bustle. Parked in the Sonora Quest parking lot, I used that spare time to compose a short poem, if you can even call it that. Perhaps I should label it a song. I don’t know?

It’s written from the perspective of someone late going to work in Havasu on a Monday, like the fellow behind me that day.

“Monday Morning Blues

Come Monday morning, once again late.

Bearded coot in front of me is ridin’ his brakes.

Fool goes the speed limit, and I’m in a rush.

Old codger doesn’t hurry while I try to push.

*****

I need a paycheck, unlike that retired geezer.

My gal loves nice things, do my best to please her.

It’d sure be great not havin’ to punch a clock.

Like when COVID hit, and the government paid us off.

*****

Where’s that dude going at this time of day?

Does he not know he’s blockin’ my way?

Stay home and play checkers, as grandpas should do.

Make a bowl of soft oatmeal that’s easy to chew.

*****

My boss will be ticked, she’ll have my derriere.

Harsh words go unheard as my head’s still not clear.

She’ll prob’ly tell me I smell like the party.

Campfire, hot dogs, stale beer, and spilled Bacardi.

*****

Enjoyed Lake Havasu, all Funday long.

Dancing to music until way past dawn.

I’d make work on time if not for this creep.

Seniors, please stay home on the first day of the week!”

Female construction supervisor talks to male worker in safety gear at construction site

AWAITING CLARICE?

“I’d even spring for the cost.”

When Lake Havasu City was first developed, buyers of lots came from all over the country. Many of them had plans to build here, but a good number of those dreams never came true as age or physical ailment got in the way.

The first property we purchased was from an older couple who no longer could make the big move from Ohio to Arizona. They carried a mortgage note for us, which was quite common in the 1980s.

Other real estate was obtained the same way, with a couple of sellers passing away before we ever paid things off. Their beneficiaries then received the payments. It was sad because we’d developed a friendly rapport with one lady.

A house on Smoketree that I drive by quite regularly has sat empty for several years. Research shows this was a second home for a couple back east, and it appears the husband’s no longer able to make trips out here. He’s up there in age. This happens on a regular basis with snowbirds.

Similar stories can be told about plots in cemeteries. Burial plots are obtained, yet after death, family members know nothing about Ted and Nancy’s plans because they were never fully disclosed. The plot then sits empty.

Estate planners will tell you to write this stuff down and record it. My wife and I have that part of our estate in order. Our gravesite is ready to go with a granite gravestone on top. All that’s needed to complete things is engraving; hopefully, that won’t be required for another 50 years.

There’s a tombstone in Lake Havasu City that speaks of miscommunication, or perhaps something else went wrong. Hopefully, it’ll be straightened out later, but it’s been nine years now since Clarice’s death. I’m sure I could find similar tales if I looked.

Edward and Clarice Ziner lived at 2095 Eagle Drive for several years. When Edward died of cancer in 2007, he was buried by his wife in Havasu Memorial Gardens, with plans for her to be interred there as well.

Her gravestone sits by his with a birth year but no recorded death date, even though Clarice passed away in 2017. At that point, she was living in Washington State. Public records that I’m privy to don’t show that her remains were ever brought back here.

A cross on Clarice’s and Edward’s tombstones indicates they are Christians, as they attended Mount Olive Lutheran Church. The couple is now back together in Heaven, as their earthly bodies no longer contain spiritual souls.

For less than the cost of five gallons of diesel, a brass plate bearing the date February 3, 2017, could be screwed onto Clarice’s gravestone, completing the work. It matters not that her remains aren’t there.

I’m sure this doesn’t bother either one of the Ziners, as they’re probably laughing about it, but finishing things up would put an end to any further questions from nosey writers like me. I’d even spring for the cost.

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

“That statement should ruffle a few leftist feathers.”

I recently came across an archaic statement I hadn’t seen or heard in ages. It was actually the title of an episode on a 1960s television show called “The Twilight Zone.”  This segment is called “A Penny For Your Thoughts.”

The plot of this mystery thriller revolves around a man who can read his coworkers’ minds. I highly recommend searching for it on YouTube, as it’s both humorous and thought-provoking.

“A penny for your thoughts” means tell me what you’re thinking, usually said when someone looks distracted, thoughtful, or quiet. I’ve heard it a few times in my life. Mrs. Turner, my sixth-grade teacher, used it more than once when I was daydreaming in class, which was often. It was her polite way of telling me to snap out of it.

The phrase is very old and is commonly traced to Sir Thomas More, who used it in 1522 in his work “Four Last Things.” I’ve never totally read this and can honestly say I don’t plan to, at least not in its entirety. I only mention this last remark because Thomas never finished the work. What he did compose is most excellent.

At the time of Sir Thomas More, a penny was a small but meaningful amount of money, so the idea was: I’ll give you a penny if you share what’s on your mind. Now it’s mostly a friendly, informal expression, not a literal offer of money. People say it to gently invite someone to open up.

With the sad decision to stop making Lincoln cents in the US, “A penny for your thoughts” will eventually go the way of dinosaurs. Twenty years from now, school children will only think of Penny as a female classmate’s name. That statement should ruffle a few leftist feathers.

Changing directions here just slightly, I started collecting different-year Lincoln pennies as a kid, placing them in blue Whitman coin notebooks. There were some Lincoln cents that were quite rare and expensive, with those slots left blank. One of them was the 1909 S-V.D.B.

That penny was minted in San Francisco with V.D.B. standing for the coin designer, Victor David Brenner. Only 484,000 were made. It is considered the 14th most collectible United States coin out of 100. I was fortunate in my later years to finally acquire one.

Youngsters collecting pennies for a hobby, as I did, will undoubtedly suffer because of President Trump’s decision. The reason the United States Mint was instructed by him to do so was that it cost 3.69 cents to manufacture each coin. The year 2025 is the final year of production, although special collector coins will still be struck.

I suppose a new statement will eventually replace “A penny for your thoughts,” though a nickel, dime, or quarter doesn’t quite sound right. Perhaps someday, monetary persuasion won’t even be needed to know what’s on someone’s mind.

If telepathy is ever perfected, AI computers should be able to decipher a person’s facial and body language to the point of recognizing what they’re thinking. Right now, that isn’t possible, but technology is working hard in that direction.

Had Mrs. Turner had a telepathy analyzer in her class in 1965, and zeroed it in on my brain, she would’ve been dumbfounded at what I was thinking. Most of my thoughts were undoubtedly daydreams of still being on the school playground or riding my bike at home, playing with my dogs and cats, and visiting my grandparents in Alabama. I loved visiting my grandparents.

There was nothing really academic or brilliant floating around in my head at that time. A penny for my thoughts back then would’ve been a bargain. These days, those memories are priceless!